Dirty Blonde

CHAPTER 18

Cate hustled down the sidewalk under the cold sun, holding her coat at her neck against a biting wind. Bundled-up people hurried this way and that, their breaths making cotton puffs in the frigid air. Morning traffic clogged the narrow street, stop-and-go, mostly business deliveries at this hour, and a white Liberty Fish van honked, stalled by a UPS truck making a delivery. Cate lived only six blocks east of this neighborhood, and if Society Hill were the residential side of colonial Philadelphia, Old City had been the commercial, characterized by large industrial spaces that later proved perfect for restaurants, art galleries, lofts, photography studios, and furniture-design showrooms. And evidently, the Philadelphia production offices of Attorneys@Law.

Cate stopped when she reached the address, only a black-stenciled number 388 on a dented metal door wedged between a closed restaurant and a wholesale restaurant-supply outlet. She stepped back and looked up at the brick building, two stories above the restaurant-supply outlet. Fluorescent lights paneled the ceiling on the second floor; the storefront window bore no sign. The sign on the window of the third floor read TATE amp; SON, INDUSTRIAL DRAWING. The Attorneys@Law office had to be the second floor, and in this brick sliver of a building, it couldn’t be more than one room wide.

Cate eyed the door frame, dirty and peeling gray paint, home to two black buzzers recessed in grimy brass, unlabeled. She hit the top button, assuming it was the third floor, and the door buzzed loudly. She slipped inside, into a tiny entrance room, then went upstairs and stopped at the second floor, at a security door that read ATTORNEYS@LAW. Cate knocked.

No answer. But she knew Micah was inside, from the phone call. She knocked again, then again, and was about to kick the door down when it flew open.

“The office is closed!” Micah said, flinging open the door. Then her expression changed to bewilderment. “Judge Fante?”

“Yes,” Cate answered, equally surprised. Micah had clearly been crying, her eyes wet and her nose swollen. The sight touched Cate, until she reminded herself that this girl had been following her every move. Or at least she knew who had.

“Whoa, this is so random.” Micah quickly wiped a tear away. Her hair fell loosely to her shoulders and she wore a black ribbed sweater, tight jeans, and red Converse sneakers. “You caught me at a bad time. I was just watching the press conference.”

“I’m sorry,” Cate said, pushing inside. “I was in the neighborhood and I wanted to talk to you about Mr. Simone, to tell you personally how very sorry I am.”

“Why…thanks.”

“It’s just so awful.” Cate scanned the cramped reception area, furnished with a funky black leather couch, a black coffee table, a one-cup coffee machine, and a dorm-size refrigerator. Slick posters of the cast of Attorneys@Law, in the trademark black and red, blanketed the walls. The reception room led to a room in the back, from which came the sound of a television. “Is the press conference still on?”

“I don’t think so,” Micah answered, her voice thick.

“I heard some on the car radio. TV in there?” Cate darted for the office, sizing it up in a glance; a huge plasma flat-screen TV, a black contemporary desk, a black Aeron chair, and a white iBook surrounded by stacks of papers labeled PRODUCTION SCHEDULES, TRAVEL amp; EXPENSES, and HEAD SHOTS. Cate turned to Micah, who stood at the threshold, wiping her nose. “I was hoping to catch the end of the conference. What did they say, anything new?”

“I guess you heard that Marz committed suicide.”

“Yes. Poor man.”

“I don’t feel sorry for him. He brought it on himself. The police say he used the same gun that was the murder weapon. So that means he killed Art, which I could have told them.” Micah blew her nose loudly, and her pretty cheeks turned red from the pressure. “Maybe I’m not supposed to say this, but I really wish you hadn’t said what you said that day in court. I think Art would be alive today, if you hadn’t.”

Cate felt a stab of guilt. “I’m sorry.”

“He was a great man, a genius.” Micah dabbed at her eye with the Kleenex. “I know they say that about everyone in Hollywood, but he really was.”

“I’m so sorry. It’s upsetting.”

“It really is and it…” Micah’s sentence trailed off as she watched the TV, and Cate turned to the life-size screen. A woman with a model’s lovely features, long blond hair, and a tight-fitting black pantsuit stood behind a lectern topped with a bouquet of microphones. The panel caption under the picture read MRS. ERIKA SIMONE.

“Is that his wife?” Cate asked needlessly, eyeing Micah for a reaction.

“Yes. She’s Swedish.” Micah kept her gaze riveted to the screen, her eyes glistening. If she were jealous of Simone’s wife, it didn’t show, so either she wasn’t having an affair with her boss or she was a really good actress.

On the screen, Erika Simone was saying, in a sexy Nordic accent, “I wish to thank the Philadelphia Police department, and particularly Detectives Nesbitt and Roots, for their great work and the kindness they showed us. The City of Brotherly Love has truly been very good to my family, and I would like to donate one hundred thousand dollars, the reward money we had originally offered, to the Widow and Orphans Fund. Thank you very much.”

“That was nice,” Cate said, and Micah nodded, her lips tight. “Was that your idea?”

“I didn’t even know about it.” Micah switched off the TV with a black remote, and the room fell abruptly silent.

“When’s the funeral?” Cate asked, breaking the spell, and Micah dropped her Kleenex into the wastebasket beside the desk.

“Saturday, in L.A.”

“You get to go on the company jet?” Cate was guessing they had one.

“Uh, no, I’m not going. Erika wants to keep it small, I heard, so it’s only immediate family. I can understand her not wanting to turn it into a big Hollywood funeral. That’s so lame when people do that.”

“Now what happens, for you?”

“It’s a one-woman office, and the show must go on, of course.” Micah nodded sadly. “It won’t run as well as before, but there’s a guy in L.A. who’s going to executive-produce.”

“What is it you do exactly, for the show?” Cate tried to sound friendly.

“Everything and anything, really. There’s lots of little things that have to be done here, even though most of the show is filmed in L.A. Like one time, Art called me in a total panic.” Micah smiled sadly. “I had to FedEx ten cheesesteaks to him from Pat’s and Geno’s, so the characters could talk about whether they liked Pat’s or Geno’s better.”

Cate faked a laugh. “So you’re the Philly expert, huh?”

“Yes. I went to Girls’ High, in the city, and then Drexel. I’m not one of those suburban posers.”

“So anything he needs in Philly, you make sure he gets. If he needs somebody followed, do you do that, too?”

Micah’s smile faded.

“Like me, for example? Are you the one who followed me? Or should I sue someone else?”

Micah blinked, her long eyelashes still wet. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.” Cate shoved a hand into her purse, pulled out the folded chronology, and held it up high. “Recognize this? A professional detective didn’t do it, and you’re the only employee here.” Cate slipped the paper back into her purse. “Was Simone making a new TV show, called Judges@Court? Like he testified on the stand?”

“I’m just a production assistant, Judge.”

“But you know what I’m talking about.”

Micah didn’t reply, suddenly looking out the window, at the view of brick nothing.

“You followed me, right? You took notes on me. Dates. Times. Men. You even took pictures from a car.”

Micah puckered her pretty lips. “How do you know this?”

“Just answer me. Did you do it?”

“I don’t have to answer you. I have rights. You have to go.” Micah strode to the door, but Cate stood rooted.

“You gonna throw yourself out? Because I’m not leaving.”

“You’re trespassing. You have to. I’m asking you to leave.”

“Make me. Call the cops. Right now.” Cate gestured at the tiny cell phone on the desk. “Let’s ask them if it’s okay to stalk a federal judge.”

“The legal department said it was legal.”

“Hence the name, but don’t argue with a judge. Am I right or am I wrong on you? Listen, I’ll make you a deal. Tell me what I need to know, and I won’t sue you. How’s that?”

“You can’t sue. Legal said.” Micah frowned like a small child, and Cate almost laughed.

“I can always sue. Didn’t your lawsuit with Marz teach you that? Didn’t he make your life miserable? Taking your time, costing Simone a fortune?”

Micah began listening, her eyes widening.

“Can you afford to be sued? What do you have, at your age? What are you, thirty?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“So what, an apartment in Center City? A white Saturn with two years of payments? What do you have? Because legal fees will take it all from you. And that’s if you win.”

Micah paused, walked back into the office, and sank into the Aeron chair opposite the desk.

“Good call,” Cate said, crossing her arms.